


The Last Bottle of Aggregio

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age Inquisition - Fandom
Genre: Here Lies the Abyss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2712830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian can't sleep. The best cure? A midnight walk and some advice from a familiar face. SPOILERS through "Here Lies the Abyss" and Dorian's personal quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Bottle of Aggregio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jkateel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkateel/gifts).



Dorian can't sleep. The screams of good men and women have gotten into his ears and refuse to be silenced. It's not his fault; he knows that. They were soldiers. They chose their sacrifice. Yet still it troubles Dorian, for no matter how far he flees Tevinter, it seems others are always sacrificing their blood on his behalf.

Not that he alone is the Inquisition, of course. But in the logic of guilt, he might as well be. After all, he was the one who begged to come here to Adamant with Trevelyan; he was the one whose protection he was so sure the Inquisitor needed most of all. As if Trevelyan needed anybody's protection. Maker's balls, the man can singlehandedly seal holes in the sky; he sure as hell doesn't need Dorian to shield him from anything. Quite the other way around, in fact.

And now Dorian's misplaced… _enthusiasm_ for his fearless leader has been repaid with the lives of others, hundreds of times over.

Part of him wishes Cole were here, so he could touch him with his Fade-magic and make it all just disappear. But seeing as no friendly-creepy spirits are nearby, only the glowy-angry ones, Dorian does the next best thing and takes himself for what he hopes will be a nice, calming midnight walk.

It isn't. The Inquisition's forces have laid siege to Adamant Fortress for the better part of a week, but to no avail; Erimond and the Wardens still remain safe, cloistered somewhere in the inner keep. As a result, the dead number so high that the pyres can't keep pace, and bodies stack like bulwarks around fires that burn night and day.

It's hard to look at, but Dorian forces himself. The fire, at least, is alive. It's good to be reminded of that.

Earlier, Warden Alistair suggested the Inquisition's forces make one last assault, just before dawn, while he and Trevelyan led a small squadron up the battlements to break through the enemy's defenses. The plan sounds more like sacrificing both rooks to take a queen, but then again, Trevelyan seems to think it'll work, and that's good enough for Dorian. He'd certainly follow Trevelyan into more dire circumstances with less to go on. Dorian suspects he might even follow Trevelyan into the Fade itself.

Again, with the enthusiasm. One of these days, it was going to come back to bite him in the ass. Temptation always did, in the end.

Turning a corner, Dorian comes upon the tents where the rank and file have camped. He's surprised to find the Champion there, silhouetted against the moon. Engrossed in his task, Hawke does not notice Dorian at first.

The Champion has bent nearly double over a scout-falcon. He ties a scroll to her claw with obvious gentleness; it's an odd sight in a man who chews his words as if they were made of spit and gristle. He even takes a second to chuff the bird under its beak. It occurs to Dorian that Hawke must have been a much younger man once. But—of course he was. They all were. It doesn't make any sense to think about that right now.

The raptor takes wing. Hawke, graven as a statue, watches her soar away.

"Hawke with a hawk, huh?" says Dorian. "I'd say you were being too on the nose, but as a Fereldan you might think I'm flirting. After all, your generous noses are the envy of all Thedas."

If Hawke is surprised to suddenly find himself with company, he makes no indication. "Messenger hawk's the fastest way home, at least until I can turn into a dragon and fly there myself."

Dorian chuckles. "If you could turn into a dragon, then I daresay things would be a lot different right now. We'd all be much warmer, for starters. And back at Skyhold, cozy in our beds, for another."

Hawke looks down at his hands, reproach in his eyes. "Don't I know it."

Dorian suddenly feels the need to apologize for his joke, though he's not entirely sure why it landed as poorly as it did. "Sorry," he offers lamely. "Surrounded by the dead, it's difficult to offer the proper witty repartee worthy of a Champion."

Hawke shrugs and starts to walk away. But Dorian, still feeling guilty, calls after him, "I'm sure your friends and family back home are fine. Kirkwall is far from here. Very far."

Hawke stops, pauses, then turns around. "I didn't say Kirkwall," he says. "I said home."

Dorian frowns. "Is there a difference for you?"

"Home is where the heart is," says Hawke. "And that damnable piss-pot broke mine years ago."

Hawke's words sink into Dorian's chest like a dagger. He knows exactly how the Champion feels; how often has he said the same thing, or something like it, to himself over the years? But Dorian isn't used to seeing a man wear his grief so openly, or share it so freely. It's a raw and uncomfortable thing; it might have been easier if Hawke had actually stabbed him.

But Dorian recovers himself quickly – all that practice at Minrathous soirees, perhaps. "Don't let Varric hear you say that," he says with a dazzling smile. "To hear him talk, Kirkwall is the Golden City itself."

Hawke chuckles sadly. "Varric always did have a way of seeing the mabari under the shit and fleas."

"Is that a Fereldan saying? It's delightfully crass. I rather like it."

Hawke smiles, a broken thing that stretches his ragged beard further than it was meant to bear. He considers Dorian a moment before saying, "I could use a drink. Could you use a drink?"

"Desperately," says Dorian honestly.

"Then follow me." He starts to walk. Swagger, really. Dorian, never one to interrupt a good swagger, follows a pace or two behind. "I've got a bottle of Aggregio Pavali in my pack I've been saving. Now seems as good an occasion as any."

Dorian's eyes boggle. "Aggregio? How in Thedas did you get your hands on that?"

"A friend," is all Hawke says in reply.

Hawke takes Dorian back to a small fire on the outskirts of camp, as far as possible from Trevelyan's tent and those of the other commanders. A bedroll and a pack lay next to the flames, as well as a well-worn copy of _Hard in Hightown 2: Siege Harder_. Varric, it seems, has also decided to pitch his tent out here; his snores rumble from within the canvas like earthquakes. Dorian relaxes a little; he'd been wondering where the dwarf had disappeared to.

"Where's your tent?" he asks.

"Don't need it," replies Hawke, who kneels by his pack and begins to rifle through it. "I'm not that soft anymore."

"You think a tent is a _luxury_?" Dorian can't conceive of it. To him, Skyhold is the absolute limit of acceptable frontiersmanship. This business of _camping_ , of sleeping outdoors, protected by canvas and nothing else, is an affront to man's civilized nature. Andraste didn't die for tents.

"I suppose Anders has rubbed off on me," says Hawke. "Though he's not the best judge. The man lived in a sewer once. Everything's a luxury to him." He sighs wistfully, as if that were a thought to make one wistful and not thoroughly disgusted. "But truth be told, I can't sleep under a roof anymore. I've spent the past four years lying out under the stars, and not being able to see them makes me fidgety now. Ah, here it is."

Hawke reveals a dark bottle without a label. It looks like someone's private vintage, which excites Dorian even more; everyone knows that private vintage Aggregio is the best Aggregio.

Hawke unsheathes a dagger from his boot and stabs the cork in an attempt to remove it. The cork plunks into the bottle instead. With a shrug, Hawke swigs straight from the lip. Dorian is not so far removed from Minrathous that he isn't horrified by the sight.

Hawke sighs with pleasure. "Not skunked," he says as he hands the bottle to Dorian. "I had to wonder, sitting next to Fenris's fire for so long."

Dorian takes the Aggregio with a hesitant nod of thanks. The bottle's heavy in his hand, heavier than it looks; it's that fine Neromenian glass, darker and thicker than other bottle-glass, the perfect shelter for so fine a liquor. For a moment, Dorian can do little but stare at it. Then it occurs to him that he is in the middle of a battlefield with an army of demons at his heels, and that he will probably die before morning and that, Maker damn him, beggars can't be choosers.

Still, Dorian allows himself to discreetly wipe the rim with his sleeve before taking a sip.

The liquid burns as it rolls down his throat. He stifles a choke. It's _horrible._ Maybe it is skunked. Or maybe he's lost his taste for Aggregio. Dorian can't decide which possibility would sadden him more.

"Bracing," he says with as much approval as he can fake. Then he hands the bottle back to Hawke, who takes it and drinks deeply, very deeply. "Back there, you were sending a message. May I ask to whom?"

"Anders," replies Hawke into the bottle. "My—" He sighs and takes another drink.

"I know who he is," Dorian offers politely. "But is it safe to do that? Weren't you two in hiding before? "

"Maybe, maybe not. But I worry about him. We haven't been apart in so long, and with all those rogue Templars on the road, and now the Calling—" He shakes his head, as if dispelling a bad dream. "Ah, I'm being a silly old fishwife. He'll be fine," he says in a voice that sounds almost like Varric's. "He's got my old mabari to look after him, after all."

Dorian's eyebrow quirks. "Wouldn't it be the other way around?"

"Not with a mabari, it isn't."

Dorian isn't sure what to say to that. He's heard that Fereldans take their dogs very seriously, but it's one thing to swap bawdy jokes about them a dinner party and another thing entirely to see firsthand the absolute trust and faith one puts in his hound. It's rather charming, actually, if perhaps misplaced. Dorian's a cat person, himself.

"What's he like? Anders, I mean," says Dorian. "I've heard the songs, but I am curious about the man behind the myth."

Hawke chuckles. "Don't tell me they've heard of him even up in Tevinter?"

"They've _especially_ heard of him in Tevinter." Dorian's smirk turns sardonic. "After all, we do so love our stories about the brave men willing to stick it to those tarts in the false Chantry. We even put Hessarian on all the chantry amulets."

That makes Hawke smile: a sight too young on such a weathered face, like a mountain cracking apart. Dorian can't decide if it's terribly sad, or dashingly handsome. Maybe a bit of both.

"What is Anders like? Hmm. He's—" Hawke looks Dorian up and down, gaze lingering over the clear gemstones sparkling on Dorian's buckles. "A bit like you, actually. Tell me: How do you feel about feathers?"

"That depends." Dorian eases into a flirtatious smile like an old pair of slippers. It's easy around Hawke. Maybe he's not quite as handsome as Varric's tales suggested, but something about the man is impossible, like he walked out of a storybook. He's exactly the kind of man Dorian imagines any rebel mage would fall for. "In the bed chamber, or out of it?"

Hawke's shoulders relax visibly. "Yes."

"Appropriate, yet woefully under-utilized in most occasions."

The smile widens. "Then I think you'd like him very much."

"But would he like _me_?"

Hawke laughs good-naturedly, and Dorian feels a sudden pang of jealousy; not for Anders, specifically, but for something he's never known and may never will. But maybe—maybe with Trevelyan—

No. _Especially_ not with him. Tempting as it is, the Herald of Andraste is off-limits.

"I hate to say it, but he probably wouldn't," replies Hawke. "Justice gets as possessive about his territory as a mabari with a bone."

"Ah yes. Justice. I heard about him too." Dorian shakes his head in wonder. "I can't imagine a threesome with a spirit. That'd be taboo even in Tevinter."

"It's not how you think," says Hawke. "Justice—Vengeance—whoever the hell he is now—it's not like he's a separate entity. Well, he is, sometimes. But not all the times. I don't know; I can't keep it straight anymore. It doesn't matter. I don't care. We make it work." He takes another pull from the bottle. "You're one to talk about taboos anyway."

"What do you mean?"

Hawke's face grows grim. "Tevinter. All that blood magic. I know what goes on up there."

The corner of Dorian's mouth tugs upward. "Not all of us are blood mages. Some of us are quite opposed to the idea, actually. I for one believe that it is the last resort of the weak mind."

"Oh. I see," says Hawke slowly, if he'd never before considered the possibility. "But you admit that it _is_ still a resort."

"Well, yes, as it is for all mages, even those outside the Imperium. And you don't have to love Tevinter to take it. From what I heard, Kirkwall could have put Minrathous to shame."

"You've got me there." Hawke spins the bottle around in his hands. "You know, Dorian, you're not like most magisters I know."

"Maybe because technically, I'm an Altus, not a magister, but I'll grant you, the distinction is mostly esoteric down here." Dorian holds his hands out to the fire; the warmth is comforting, if superficial, on his palms. "Did you meet many magisters in Kirkwall? The Free Marches aren't on the usual party circuit."

"We saw a few. Slavers, mostly." Hawke sighs, a broken sound. "If Fenris could only see me now, sharing a bottle with a magister. He'd lose his mind."

"Not a fan of Tevinter, is he?"

"Let me put it this way: If Fenris were here, we might not need the army to take the keep. We could just toss you in there and let him at the front door." Hawke looks Dorian straight in the eye. "He was a former slave."

"Ah." Dorian's face burns hot as the fire before him. "For what it's worth, my family treated our slaves well."

"But you still had them."

"Yes, I did."

"And they were still slaves."

Dorian nods. "Yes. They were still slaves. I see that now. I—didn't before. But now, I do."

Hawke regards him with an expression that isn't necessarily approval, but which is softer than it was before. "Better late than never, I suppose."

"So one can hope."

Words die away. For a while, they both simply stare into the fire, each content to wrestle his thoughts in silence. Dorian's wander down to the tents, where his other companions must be scrounging what little sleep they can. Blackwall, snoring like a hacksaw taken to wood. Alistair, who mumbles ancient songs in his sleep. And Trevelyan…Trevelyan…

It's not fair. Meeting him here and now, instead of years ago in Tevinter, back when he really needed the company of a man as strong and principled as Trevelyan. Dorian was so much more like glass in those days: strong and fragile in equal measure; solid and yet completely transparent. It would have been nice to have someone when he was still sorting himself out. Someone to understand. Who cared enough to understand.

He wonders if, had he met Trevelyan back then, they'd be like Hawke and Anders are now: old fishwives utterly devoted to one another, unable to spend even a single peaceful night apart. But that's impossible now. Trevelyan is a leader, a messiah. He is more role than man. And Dorian is—well, deep down he's just the same kid who kept playing with fire, even though it always ended up burning his fingers.

"Hawke," he says softly. "May I ask you something? You don't have to answer. Just tell me to go to hell if you like."

Eyes glinting from firelight, Hawke nods.

"I know about you and Anders, but do you—you know?" Dorian clears his throat uncomfortably. "Double dagger?"

Hawke cocks his head like a dog. "I don't follow."

"Take the, er, company of both men and women."

He chuckles, softly. "No," he says. "I've always been a one-dagger man."

"Me too." Dorian licks his lips; they taste of skunked Aggregio. "Have you always known it about yourself?"

It's silly, to care about this of all things. But Dorian finds he just can't help himself. After all, he's met so few men in his life like Hawke: men so open about their grief, about the same things that once ripped Dorian apart. That still do. Perhaps it's the Aggregio, but Dorian feels like maybe, just maybe, Hawke would understand.

"Yes, I always knew," says Hawke. "For a long time I tried otherwise, but it didn't get me very far. Anders was my first man. My only."

"What did your parents think?"

The shadows play on Hawke's face, turning the hollows under his eyes into caverns. "My mother, she liked Anders well enough, but she went to her pyre still hoping he was a phase, and that I'd find some pretty countess to settle down with. My father—" He sighs, low and heavy. "I never got a chance to tell him. He died of the wasting, three years before we came to Kirkwall. I was barely out of shortpants then. But I think… I think maybe he always knew."

Dorian isn't sure he wants to ask the next question, but he can't help himself. It tumbles from his mouth like a sinking ship. "And—what did he think of it? Of you?"

Hawke shrugs. "He was my father," he says, as if it should explain everything.

To Dorian, it doesn't. He wishes, desperately, that it did.

"Why? What does your family think of you and _him_?" asks Hawke, with a nod toward the tents where Trevelyan sleeps.

"There is no me and him," Dorian says quickly. Too quickly.

"Ah," says Hawke knowingly. "I see."

"There isn't."

There's the flash of white teeth through beard, and suddenly, Hawke claps him on the shoulder. "A little friendly advice, then," he says. "Don't wait three years to tell him. All that aching's not nearly as romantic as the songs make it sound."

"I'll—keep that in mind." Dorian smiles, then catches himself. "No, I won't. I can't. It could never happen between us."  

"Why, because he's the Inquisitor?"

When Hawke says it, the idea sounds foolish. But Dorian knows it's not. "Isn't that enough of a reason?"

"Of course not. It's downright shitty, actually. Even messiahs need a good roll in the hay now and then. And when they do—when they can't bear it any longer—well, believe me, you'll want to be there for it."

Then he winks. The bastard actually _winks._

It's too much for Dorian. This conversation is too much. Everything is too much. Here he is, on the eve of battle, surrounded by corpses and demons, and what is he doing? Drinking with a character out of Varric's serials and gossiping about boys.

But maybe Hawke is right. Maybe there _is_ a chance, a chance that he and Trevelyen—

_No,_ says a voice in his head. It sounds like his father's. _You must resist your temptation, Dorian._

Ah, temptation. It gets him every time.

Dorian stands up. He feels a little dizzy, though that's probably the Aggregio. "I should go," he says. "We've got a long night—morning—ahead of us, and I'm sure we should try to get some sleep ahead of it."

"Oh, sure. Because that's exactly what I need right now," grumbles Hawke. "A nice, relaxing trip to the Fade. I'll pass."

"Suit yourself." Dorian isn't sure how best to make his farewells, so he salutes. He's just drunk enough that it doesn't come off pompous. Hawke laughs. "Thanks for the chat, Hawke. And the wine."

Hawke smiles his jagged-edge smile. "Any time for either. I mean it."

Dorian nods. He heads back to his tent, head and heart lighter. He's glad he stopped to talk to Hawke tonight. It was—unexpected, but then again, he's always found good things in the unexpected.

He gets back to his tent and unfurls his bedroll. As he drifts off to sleep at last, Dorian thinks that for the first time in his life, he might actually be ready to face, head-on, the nightmares that lie ahead.


End file.
